"Mahri."
"Yes, Mahri." O'aka couldn't even look Max in the eyes as he told his story. "I have no idea how he managed it, but Mahri tracked Pahlist down and decapitated him." O'aka took a deep breath, seeming to take a long drag on the air as though it were a cigar. "You should have seen the look in his eyes as he told me. It was frightening."
"The look of insanity?" Max could think of nothing else that would fill the eyes of so brutal a murderer.
"No." O'aka collapsed into his hands, muffling his voice. "No, it was the complete opposite. It was like doing that was his bloody mission. His duty. I. . . he wasn't insane, he was totally sane when he told me. I could see it in his eyes."
Max was silent. How was one supposed to respond to that? Eventually going with his gut, he pressed O'aka to continue.
---
The village was in an utter uproar that day. People dashed about in a frenzy, taking absolute care not to go anywhere near the head, or the tiny wooden coffin in which it had been conveyed.
Preacher locked himself in his house, completely dumbfounded. The sight of his only son's head in a box had disturbed him beyond rational thought. He refused to speak to anyone, preferring silent, constant prayer in front of a Yevonite sculpture he kept in his bedroom.
The people were terrified. What to do? There would be no boat to the mainland for a few more weeks. The news would not get out until then, and no protection for their little community could be given. Certainly not by themselves, either: were they not a peaceful people, unused to war? If the murderer decided to come calling, they would all be vulnerable to attack.
A nightly watch was set up for any individuals, right at the gates to town. People would rotate on an hourly basis until the town decided it was safe to step down. Several crude weapons – generally around-the-house tools, like cooking knives and the like – were made available for all to use. They all tried to ensure that their little religious community would stay safe and sound.
Their big problem, however, was that they did not anticipate that the killer had arrived with the package. Which he had, hidden amongst various crates for the duration of the trip. He'd paid the captain of the boat extra to keep his mouth shut, and not ask any questions, about his thickly cloaked guest. He simply assumed that the man had arranged a surprise for his family and friends on the island, and did not want word getting out prematurely.
Mahri slipped over the side of the boat and descended deep into the jungles shortly after Preacher had carried the package away. He retained his cloak the whole time, weathering it even through the sweltering heat. The young man – now eighteen years of age – watched through the trees, never faltering in his gaze, as the head bounced out of its box and horrified the people collected around it. With grim satisfaction he watched Preacher's face turn shock white as the big man ran bodily towards his house.
He waited. He waited until the people outside began to barricade themselves in their huts, posting a few inadequately hidden sentries at obvious, simple-minded positions. Devout, yes: strategic, no. He waited until the sun rolled over the horizon and vanished, casting a dark haze over the settlement. He waited, through it all, never flinching, never giving away his position. And, when the stars started to come out, he began to move.
With expert precision Mahri slipped past the sentries. He had no business with them: he wanted their ringleader. He made his way past all the huts, avoiding the bright glare of windows, making himself one with the darkness. All was done in absolute silence and with a fleet foot.
Preacher's house, unlike the rest of the huts, was relatively large, and ornate. He obviously did not strictly adhere to all of his teachings. The door boasted a huge, golden knocker, but Mahri had no use for it.
Instead, he cast his cloak aside and, retrieving an absolutely huge, curved and somewhat unwieldy scimitar from astride his back, simply sliced the door in two. One side of it collapsed on the grass beside Mahri as the other swung lazily from its hinges, squeaking slightly. Mahri stopped its motion with a hand and entered. He didn't care if anybody noticed his handiwork: any aid directed towards the Preacher would call for an instant, gruesome death.
The interior was dark. A few luminescent orbs cast odd hues upon the walls, lighting Mahri's way to the Preacher's bedchamber. He made sure to check the study first, of course – that room, and the other door which lay within it, called up strong, repugnant memories for the young man – but, noticing that the Preacher was not within, swiftly closed the door, and continued to silently tread the house in search of his prey.
And he found him. The door to the Preacher's room was closed, and light poured out from the crack underneath: within, Mahri could hear his muffled prayers, repeated over and over in a shaky voice.
And so Mahri opened the door. And he went in.
And the Preacher, sensing another soul within his room, looked up from his prayers: and there he saw a young man with deeply tanned skin, and fraught with thin, wiry, powerful muscles. He wore baggy, grey pants, rounded off with a belt covered in pouches and small, lethal daggers. His hair, once brown, had long, stunning streaks of white running through it, nearly eliminating its former hue entirely, all but in the roots. It was long and spiky, hanging about in chaotic disarray. On his back was an impossibly long and vicious sword, kept aloft by a strap encircling his chest.
But his most striking feature were those eyes. Green and swirling, they were a pure vortex. A supernova of utter destruction. They wanted the Preacher's soul, those cold, emerald eyes did, burning hotter than the embers of a volcano. Those eyes watched him with the hatred of a man who had nothing more to lose, and who now faces the sower of his discontent.
The Preacher said not a word. Before him stood a demon in the flesh. A demon that, apparently, had escaped him years ago, for he instantly recognized that little boy who had gazed at him with those cold, dead eyes over a decade earlier.
Mahri was behind the Preacher before the older man could even react. The young man was incredibly quick, his skills sharpened after years of unspeakably harsh training and toning. With a swift jerk of the wrist he yanked one of Preacher's arms up behind his back, causing the Preacher to yell out in acute pain. Stars swam before his eyes. He attempted to resist, but the hold prevented him from doing so, for it felt as though he might wrench the arm from its socket. All that aside, the young man seemingly had the strength of a hundred Preachers, especially now in his rage.
"Greetings, Citizen." Were the first words hissed into the Preacher's ears. "I think you remember me, do you not? I should hope so, after what you put my sister and I through. You know, in that special little room of yours, down in the basement. You remember that place, right?"
"Y-you heretical de-"the Preacher began, but Mahri cut him off with a sudden jab to the throat. Preacher wheezed in pain, lungs gasping. His vision had nearly blacked completely.
"No no no, none of that religious jargon you enjoy spouting off at such lengths. It is my turn to speak." Mahri, still gripping the Preacher's arm fiercely, slowly slid a tiny needle from out of his belt, and pressed it against the old man's neck. "What you did, Yevonite, was a very, very bad thing. You should never have dealt so harshly with my sister and I."
The Preacher gurgled. Mahri's expression, wrought in iron seriousness, did not so much as flinch. "I watched all the things you did to her. All the. . . pains, you deigned it necessary to inflict. The experience is what gave me this nice snowy hair of mine. The pure, abject terror you put me through, by making me watch my sister suffer. . . I intend, quite fully, to reap those pains upon you. And to multiply them a thousand fold."
The Preacher's eyes grew large. He began to tremble, still unable to utter so much as a word.
Mahri, releasing his grip and pushing the Preacher to the carpet, turned next to the Yevonite sculpture. It was a rendition of Yevon himself, bowed over in prayer.
"And upon you, false deity. You will also know my wrath." With a flick of his hand, Mahri casually destroyed the statue. Exploding internally, it rained down in fragments upon the frightened Preacher, who, having regained his voice somewhat, began to squirm about and pray under his breath.
"Do not wear yourself out too much, man of Yevon: it will be some hours yet before I let you die."
With that, Mahri descended upon the Preacher.
---
"He told me the... particulars of what he did to the Preacher, but, I don't much want to repeat them. They were utterly abhorrent at the best, rest assured, lad." O'aka's face was ashen and pallid as he described that which Mahri had related to him. "I can't say I much blame Mahri – after all, even though he never told me as such, I get the feeling the Preacher did some awful things to those two – but, really. . . I never thought the boy would turn out so ghastly as this. . ."
Max, his head swimming with questions that O'aka probably could not answer – would that he could find Mahri for an interview! – tried the aged merchant on one he may have known. "I don't get it, though. If he only wanted the Preacher, then why did everybody else end up dying?"
O'aka shook his head at that. "I couldn't tell you, lad. I know for a fact that Mahri didn't tell me everything about what happened. I suspect he and Preacher had a heated conversation before the end. . . and whatever happened in it, it drove Mahri to do exactly what he did. All I know is that, once Mahri finished up with the Preacher, he went out amongst the huts and started slaughtering everyone he found, right left and centre, until there wasn't a soul left." His eyes closed. "I wonder where the lad learned to use magic. He told me he started a mighty large fire with it, along with blowing up that statue in Preacher's house."
Max shook his head in silence. Obviously, he had no answer for that. He decided to address his next concern: Mahri's return to the cabin. O'aka, though clearly pained by it all, was more than willing to broach the subject. Retrieving another mug of water from his kitchen, he began to speak once more.
---
O'aka had been napping peacefully in bed when the knock reverberated through his house. At first, his sleepy mind dismissed it as a dream: however, repeated knocks told the lonely old man that this was not so. His first reaction was confused curiosity: who the devil could be knocking at this hour of the night?
When it finally dawned on him that he'd not had a knock on his door for over thirteen years now, he practically leapt out of bed, rushing forth with a level of stamina that a man of his age had no business in retaining. With a mighty heave he pulled the door open, and, a twig already lit – he kept a torch burning near the entrance at all times, despite the obvious fire hazard, and a pile of branches beside it - O'aka peered at his first visitor since the angry mob that had stripped him of all that made his life good.
What he saw filled O'aka's heart with ice. He gasped, pulling back and dropping his fiery twig. A heavy boot extinguished the flame before it could spread, a boot that was coated in thick layers of blood and dirt. Mahri, breathing hard and covered from head to toe in glistening crimson, stepped through the doorway, and embraced O'aka with a fierce, yet gentle, hug.
O'aka had been utterly flabbergasted, and his surprise steadily grew to horror within scant moments, as Mahri's first words were "I killed them all, grandpa. Every last one."
"Yes, Mahri." O'aka couldn't even look Max in the eyes as he told his story. "I have no idea how he managed it, but Mahri tracked Pahlist down and decapitated him." O'aka took a deep breath, seeming to take a long drag on the air as though it were a cigar. "You should have seen the look in his eyes as he told me. It was frightening."
"The look of insanity?" Max could think of nothing else that would fill the eyes of so brutal a murderer.
"No." O'aka collapsed into his hands, muffling his voice. "No, it was the complete opposite. It was like doing that was his bloody mission. His duty. I. . . he wasn't insane, he was totally sane when he told me. I could see it in his eyes."
Max was silent. How was one supposed to respond to that? Eventually going with his gut, he pressed O'aka to continue.
---
The village was in an utter uproar that day. People dashed about in a frenzy, taking absolute care not to go anywhere near the head, or the tiny wooden coffin in which it had been conveyed.
Preacher locked himself in his house, completely dumbfounded. The sight of his only son's head in a box had disturbed him beyond rational thought. He refused to speak to anyone, preferring silent, constant prayer in front of a Yevonite sculpture he kept in his bedroom.
The people were terrified. What to do? There would be no boat to the mainland for a few more weeks. The news would not get out until then, and no protection for their little community could be given. Certainly not by themselves, either: were they not a peaceful people, unused to war? If the murderer decided to come calling, they would all be vulnerable to attack.
A nightly watch was set up for any individuals, right at the gates to town. People would rotate on an hourly basis until the town decided it was safe to step down. Several crude weapons – generally around-the-house tools, like cooking knives and the like – were made available for all to use. They all tried to ensure that their little religious community would stay safe and sound.
Their big problem, however, was that they did not anticipate that the killer had arrived with the package. Which he had, hidden amongst various crates for the duration of the trip. He'd paid the captain of the boat extra to keep his mouth shut, and not ask any questions, about his thickly cloaked guest. He simply assumed that the man had arranged a surprise for his family and friends on the island, and did not want word getting out prematurely.
Mahri slipped over the side of the boat and descended deep into the jungles shortly after Preacher had carried the package away. He retained his cloak the whole time, weathering it even through the sweltering heat. The young man – now eighteen years of age – watched through the trees, never faltering in his gaze, as the head bounced out of its box and horrified the people collected around it. With grim satisfaction he watched Preacher's face turn shock white as the big man ran bodily towards his house.
He waited. He waited until the people outside began to barricade themselves in their huts, posting a few inadequately hidden sentries at obvious, simple-minded positions. Devout, yes: strategic, no. He waited until the sun rolled over the horizon and vanished, casting a dark haze over the settlement. He waited, through it all, never flinching, never giving away his position. And, when the stars started to come out, he began to move.
With expert precision Mahri slipped past the sentries. He had no business with them: he wanted their ringleader. He made his way past all the huts, avoiding the bright glare of windows, making himself one with the darkness. All was done in absolute silence and with a fleet foot.
Preacher's house, unlike the rest of the huts, was relatively large, and ornate. He obviously did not strictly adhere to all of his teachings. The door boasted a huge, golden knocker, but Mahri had no use for it.
Instead, he cast his cloak aside and, retrieving an absolutely huge, curved and somewhat unwieldy scimitar from astride his back, simply sliced the door in two. One side of it collapsed on the grass beside Mahri as the other swung lazily from its hinges, squeaking slightly. Mahri stopped its motion with a hand and entered. He didn't care if anybody noticed his handiwork: any aid directed towards the Preacher would call for an instant, gruesome death.
The interior was dark. A few luminescent orbs cast odd hues upon the walls, lighting Mahri's way to the Preacher's bedchamber. He made sure to check the study first, of course – that room, and the other door which lay within it, called up strong, repugnant memories for the young man – but, noticing that the Preacher was not within, swiftly closed the door, and continued to silently tread the house in search of his prey.
And he found him. The door to the Preacher's room was closed, and light poured out from the crack underneath: within, Mahri could hear his muffled prayers, repeated over and over in a shaky voice.
And so Mahri opened the door. And he went in.
And the Preacher, sensing another soul within his room, looked up from his prayers: and there he saw a young man with deeply tanned skin, and fraught with thin, wiry, powerful muscles. He wore baggy, grey pants, rounded off with a belt covered in pouches and small, lethal daggers. His hair, once brown, had long, stunning streaks of white running through it, nearly eliminating its former hue entirely, all but in the roots. It was long and spiky, hanging about in chaotic disarray. On his back was an impossibly long and vicious sword, kept aloft by a strap encircling his chest.
But his most striking feature were those eyes. Green and swirling, they were a pure vortex. A supernova of utter destruction. They wanted the Preacher's soul, those cold, emerald eyes did, burning hotter than the embers of a volcano. Those eyes watched him with the hatred of a man who had nothing more to lose, and who now faces the sower of his discontent.
The Preacher said not a word. Before him stood a demon in the flesh. A demon that, apparently, had escaped him years ago, for he instantly recognized that little boy who had gazed at him with those cold, dead eyes over a decade earlier.
Mahri was behind the Preacher before the older man could even react. The young man was incredibly quick, his skills sharpened after years of unspeakably harsh training and toning. With a swift jerk of the wrist he yanked one of Preacher's arms up behind his back, causing the Preacher to yell out in acute pain. Stars swam before his eyes. He attempted to resist, but the hold prevented him from doing so, for it felt as though he might wrench the arm from its socket. All that aside, the young man seemingly had the strength of a hundred Preachers, especially now in his rage.
"Greetings, Citizen." Were the first words hissed into the Preacher's ears. "I think you remember me, do you not? I should hope so, after what you put my sister and I through. You know, in that special little room of yours, down in the basement. You remember that place, right?"
"Y-you heretical de-"the Preacher began, but Mahri cut him off with a sudden jab to the throat. Preacher wheezed in pain, lungs gasping. His vision had nearly blacked completely.
"No no no, none of that religious jargon you enjoy spouting off at such lengths. It is my turn to speak." Mahri, still gripping the Preacher's arm fiercely, slowly slid a tiny needle from out of his belt, and pressed it against the old man's neck. "What you did, Yevonite, was a very, very bad thing. You should never have dealt so harshly with my sister and I."
The Preacher gurgled. Mahri's expression, wrought in iron seriousness, did not so much as flinch. "I watched all the things you did to her. All the. . . pains, you deigned it necessary to inflict. The experience is what gave me this nice snowy hair of mine. The pure, abject terror you put me through, by making me watch my sister suffer. . . I intend, quite fully, to reap those pains upon you. And to multiply them a thousand fold."
The Preacher's eyes grew large. He began to tremble, still unable to utter so much as a word.
Mahri, releasing his grip and pushing the Preacher to the carpet, turned next to the Yevonite sculpture. It was a rendition of Yevon himself, bowed over in prayer.
"And upon you, false deity. You will also know my wrath." With a flick of his hand, Mahri casually destroyed the statue. Exploding internally, it rained down in fragments upon the frightened Preacher, who, having regained his voice somewhat, began to squirm about and pray under his breath.
"Do not wear yourself out too much, man of Yevon: it will be some hours yet before I let you die."
With that, Mahri descended upon the Preacher.
---
"He told me the... particulars of what he did to the Preacher, but, I don't much want to repeat them. They were utterly abhorrent at the best, rest assured, lad." O'aka's face was ashen and pallid as he described that which Mahri had related to him. "I can't say I much blame Mahri – after all, even though he never told me as such, I get the feeling the Preacher did some awful things to those two – but, really. . . I never thought the boy would turn out so ghastly as this. . ."
Max, his head swimming with questions that O'aka probably could not answer – would that he could find Mahri for an interview! – tried the aged merchant on one he may have known. "I don't get it, though. If he only wanted the Preacher, then why did everybody else end up dying?"
O'aka shook his head at that. "I couldn't tell you, lad. I know for a fact that Mahri didn't tell me everything about what happened. I suspect he and Preacher had a heated conversation before the end. . . and whatever happened in it, it drove Mahri to do exactly what he did. All I know is that, once Mahri finished up with the Preacher, he went out amongst the huts and started slaughtering everyone he found, right left and centre, until there wasn't a soul left." His eyes closed. "I wonder where the lad learned to use magic. He told me he started a mighty large fire with it, along with blowing up that statue in Preacher's house."
Max shook his head in silence. Obviously, he had no answer for that. He decided to address his next concern: Mahri's return to the cabin. O'aka, though clearly pained by it all, was more than willing to broach the subject. Retrieving another mug of water from his kitchen, he began to speak once more.
---
O'aka had been napping peacefully in bed when the knock reverberated through his house. At first, his sleepy mind dismissed it as a dream: however, repeated knocks told the lonely old man that this was not so. His first reaction was confused curiosity: who the devil could be knocking at this hour of the night?
When it finally dawned on him that he'd not had a knock on his door for over thirteen years now, he practically leapt out of bed, rushing forth with a level of stamina that a man of his age had no business in retaining. With a mighty heave he pulled the door open, and, a twig already lit – he kept a torch burning near the entrance at all times, despite the obvious fire hazard, and a pile of branches beside it - O'aka peered at his first visitor since the angry mob that had stripped him of all that made his life good.
What he saw filled O'aka's heart with ice. He gasped, pulling back and dropping his fiery twig. A heavy boot extinguished the flame before it could spread, a boot that was coated in thick layers of blood and dirt. Mahri, breathing hard and covered from head to toe in glistening crimson, stepped through the doorway, and embraced O'aka with a fierce, yet gentle, hug.
O'aka had been utterly flabbergasted, and his surprise steadily grew to horror within scant moments, as Mahri's first words were "I killed them all, grandpa. Every last one."